


Slowly, Slowly

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Get Together, Jewish Bitty, Jewish Jack, Kosher Market AU, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Shop Keep Bitty, Slow Burn, meet cute, nhl jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 22:50:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11746818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There's something about the feel of home, of childhood when Jack steps into Bitty's, the little Kosher market that Marty's wife dragged him to.  It's the smell of freshly baked challah, it's the organised chaos of the metal wire racks full of imported food and sweets.  Jack didn't think his week would get any better, until he set eyes on the bright, sunny smile of the owner, who makes him want things he hasn't wanted in years.





	Slowly, Slowly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deanisanactualprincess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanisanactualprincess/gifts).



> Written for piesandpucks who slid into my DMs like, hey let me turn your world upside down with this kosher market AU. It left me pining for both market au Zimbits and a good falafel plate.
> 
> Disclaimer: the characters of Check, Please all belong to the brilliant and wonderful Ngozi

All trouble slowly fades away  
Slowly slowly fades away  
I hold your hand inside my hand  
Across the land through fields of joy  
-Lenny Kravitz

*** 

Jack bit into the sandwich, then let out a resigned sigh because he knew it wasn’t going to be any good, but he’d had at least some vague hope that his teammates knew what they were talking about. And it wasn’t that the sandwich was wrong, per se. It had all the right ingredients, but there was something distinctly not-right about it. Like he could tell with each bite that this had goyim fingers all over it, and it zapped any chance of him enjoying his lunch.

“Who pissed in your Wheaties, Zimms?” chirped Guy, who was digging into some sloppy meatball sub, sauce all over the side of his wrist.

Jack grimaced, then looked over to where Marty was feeding bits of his veggie sub to his three year old like a little bird. The toddler was mashing his little fingers through the sandwich, searching out small, black olive rings to push over his knuckles. Gabby was watching on, her face also resigned, but for clearly different reasons.

“It’s nothing,” Jack finally said.

Marty glanced up. “If you don’t tell them, they’re going to start guessing and you know that gets ugly.”

Jack knew that, he wasn’t an idiot, but he was hoping to just…avoid today. By the looks on their faces, though, he wasn’t about to get lucky. “It’s just the sandwich.”

His voice trailed off to a shower of boos, and Thirdy crossed his arms. “Are you seriously trying to disparage Max’s? Because I’ll come for you, Jack. I don’t even give a shit about my knee.”

Jack sighed, poking at the crust of the sandwich. “Look, it’s not bad. It’s just…not a place I’m going to get a reuben again.”

“Why. Did they fuck it up?” Thirdy demanded, and before Jack could shoo him off, he’d seized half the sandwich and tore off a huge bite. “What the fuck, dude. This tastes amazing.”

“I just said it’s not bad. It just isn’t right.”

Yet again, another chorus of chirps went out until Gabby’s wife spoke up, her soft voice carrying over the din of hockey players. “He’s not wrong.”

Every set of eyes shifted toward her. “Honey,” Marty warned.

She shook her head. “I’ve had it before, and he’s not wrong, okay? It’s just not the same if it doesn’t come from a Jewish deli.”

The silence got a little uncomfortable after that—likely everyone afraid of saying something offensive. Thirdy dropped what was left of the sandwich back on Jack’s butcher paper, and they moved on to their upcoming game against the Caps.

Business as usual.

Jack didn’t finish the sandwich.

*** 

The humidity of the late afternoon storm helped nothing as Jack slipped out of the building and headed toward his car. He’d dried off, but his shirt still felt sticky and uncomfortable, the only thing bearable was that the temperature was still mild outside.

He had just reached his car when he heard someone calling his name faintly, slightly out of breath like they were running. His brain stuttered into panic for a second, thinking fan or possibly press, but he turned to see Gabby hurrying toward him, waving.

His face broke into a relieved smile, and he took several strides toward her, meeting her halfway. “Hey. Is everything okay?”

She rolled her eyes, swiping her head across her brow. “God, I am way too pregnant to be running.”

Jack snorted. “Aren’t you like eleven weeks.”

“Any weeks is too damn pregnant to run,” she groused, patting her stomach which hadn’t yet began to go round. “But no I wanted to…I didn’t want to make a big deal about the sandwich thing because I know how they are about their precious Max’s, but I know a place.”

Jack took a step back. “You mean like…”

“It’s been there like three years, this adorable little kosher market and deli called Bitty’s. It’s up on sixth in this tiny little nook—blink and you miss it. But I swear to everything it’s best reuben you’ll ever have. The entire market’s kosher—imported everything, I swear. And the bakery…” She rolled her head back with a groan. “The man is amazing, okay? Look…I know you guys have a free afternoon this Thursday. Why don’t you sneak off and I can take you. They have Krembos there so Noah will behave long enough for us to eat as long as I get him one.”

Jack’s mouth instantly began to water at the thought. He’d been in Providence for a while, and hadn’t come across anything close to the sort of food he’d grown up with in Montreal. His dad, of course, had a nose like a kosher bloodhound, able to suss out even the most obscure markets wherever they were. Jack’s memories of being led into the little market, even when they lived in Pittsburgh, leaving with challah so fresh the scent flooded the car, his little pockets full of loose, wrapped pesek zman which he’d share with his father later, both of them giving his mother chocolatey smiles…

It had been a long time since he’d felt that sense of home, even if he loved Providence. “Yeah,” he said after a minute, and managed a genuine smile. He wanted to hug her. “That would be great. Will Marty want to come?”

Gabby snorted. “No. Not his thing. I mean, my mother was right about exactly one thing when she warned me about marrying him. But I’ll take his dislike of deli food over everything else he gives me.” She grinned warmly. “Goy of my dreams, what I can I say?”

Jack chuckled, then squeezed her shoulder. “Thanks, Gabby.”

“You got it. We have to stick together, eh?”

He laughed again, then headed to his car.

*** 

“So.”

Bitty looked up from the boxes of hamantaschen which he’d been putting off restocking until the last minute—like he did with nearly everything—and he sighed. “So what, Adam?”

Holster waggled his eyebrows at Bitty, leaning on his own box labelled _misc spices n’ shit_. “You know what, Bits. Come on, how did it go? Are Rans and I not the most amazing, wonderful, attractive, gorgeous…”

“Yeah, you keep at it, hon. I’m just gonna get to work.” Bitty reached for the box nearest to him, but found it occupied with Holster’s giant body as he splayed himself across the top.

“Not until you spill. Deets, Bits. I didn’t work this hard for nothing.”

“Well nothin’s all you’re getting,” Bitty said, then sat back on his heels, then flopped to the floor and grimaced. It really needed a good waxing. “Nothing happened.”

“Bits,” Holster groaned.

Bitty shrugged. “We went for dinner, and it was very nice, and he was…kind of polite? I guess. He talked a lot about rugby which was…” Bitty shrugged. “Anyway, then he started ordering vodka sodas and the next thing you know he’s swaying out in the alley trying to kiss me, and when I push him off me, he pukes all over my shoes.”

“So what you’re saying is,” Holster said, easing off the box and tapping a finger on his chin, “is that he needs at least six bags of flaming dog shit on his front door stoop.”

“What I’m saying is, vet your candidates better. I liked those shoes, and I had to toss them.” Bitty dragged a hand down his face. “Or better yet, just stop setting me up with anyone because your taste is terrible, you got lucky with Justin, and honestly it’s too hard to date. My schedule’s too fucked up. I have exactly one day off a month, and even that’s fucking cheating half the time because I have to do the dang books.”

Holster bit his lip, then sank down onto the floor next to him, slung his arm round Bitty’s shoulders, and stared at the floor. “Man, this is grimy as shit.”

“Just thinkin’ that,” Bitty mourned.

“I’ll call Dex. I know he’s got that one on loan for when he does the gym. I bet he’ll work for pie.”

“He’s a good goy, that Dex,” Bitty said, then pushed himself up to his knees. “Anyway, get back to work. Those top shelves aren’t going to stock themselves, and I actually want to open on time for once.”

Normally Holster would have made a crude joke, given some sort of push back. But it was clear he was feeling some guilt for the bad date, because all he did was give a mock salute with an exaggerated, “Aye aye, captain,” then got to work.

For a Wednesday, opening the doors ten minutes late—for them at least—was almost considered early.

*** 

“You have no idea how happy I am that I don’t have to explain this place,” Gabby said as she pulled into the rocky car park on the side of the building. There were only a handful of cars, which Jack found to be fairly typical of little hole-in-the-wall places like this in Providence. It was tucked away from the centre of the city, and Gabby had been completely right—he’d driven past it more than once, but hadn’t noticed it.

The front door blended into the stone front, the window was faded and small, and the sign reading Bitty’s, looked like it was fifty years old instead of three.

“I brought a couple of the other wives with me and they got all weird about the inside. They don’t get it.”

Jack sighed, but he knew what she meant. It was the trouble with people assuming the place had to look four star in order to taste it. That the food had to be served on pristine, polished dishware, and the idea of eating in the middle of a super market generally turned people off.

But Jack loved it. Jack missed it. His fingers tingled with the desire to browse, to pick up a few things his kitchen cabinets had been missing since his last stay with his parents, after his mother had restocked for him.

Hitching Noah on her hip, Gabby kissed his forehead, murmuring softly into his ear for a second, and let Jack hold the door open for her. He was struck, suddenly, by the smells, and it was like he was home. The tang of cold cuts, the fresh baked breads coming from the back. They stepped in and he relished the gentle shufft of his shoes on the newly polished tiles.

The place was a bit of a mess—maybe a bit more haphazard than most markets Jack found, but it still looked the same. Over-stuffed, metal wire shelves with boxes of imports, everything labelled in Hebrew, the little, bright orange tags bearing prices.

The best part, of course, was the deli counter. It was sweet looking, actually, and almost out of place with the chaos of the store. There was a massive deli meat window, with the imported, kosher cuts, and next to that the pastry counter showing trays of little cakes, slices of pie, challah at the bottom waiting to be bought, left out for a day, and sliced for french toast.

He missed his parents suddenly, in the strangest way.

He distracted himself by staring up at the board. It was dark, like a chalkboard, and the menu was written in very bright, chalk ink markers with bubbled titles, and neat block letters detailing out everything he expected. Sandwiches, Israeli salad, knishes, falafel plates, kabobs, schwarma.

“I’m getting the falafel plate,” Gabby said, elbowing Jack who was still reading things over. “But you’d better get your reuben. Just…trust me on that, okay?”

Jack wasn’t about to argue, not when he knew about this place now, not when he could come back and order anything he wanted whenever they were open. Not when there were shelves here for browsing, for stocking his own pantry.

He opened his mouth to ask Gabby how the lentil soup was, when the swinging door behind the counter opened, and out stepped one of the most attractive men Jack had seen in a very long time.

*** 

Bitty heard the alert about a customer coming through. He was just pulling out his tray of rye loaves from the oven, and he glanced up to yell at Adam about getting the counter when suddenly Adam’s face appeared, pale except for a mottled pink round his cheeks.

“Honey,” Bitty said.

Holster was shaking his head back and forth, eyes wide behind his thick glassed, his mouth working but no sound coming out.

Bitty banged the tray down on the counter and rushed over. “Are you having a stroke? Do I need to call paramedics or…”

“Holy fucking shit,” Holster hissed, grabbing Bitty by his apron. “Holy fucking _shit_.”

“That is not an answer, Adam Joseph,” Bitty warned.

Holster stopped the moment he was middle-named, but he didn’t entirely calm down. “Jack Zimmermann is out there, Jack. Zimmermann.”

“Okay I know that’s supposed to mean something to me,” Bitty started.

Holster gave him a tiny shake. “From the Falcs. Bits! One of the Providence Falconers is in our store. Oh holy shit, Ransom is going to die. He’s going to literally die. What if Mashkov is with him? He’ll never forgive me. Bits, you gotta go see if Mashkov is with him.”

Half the words made sense now, because Bitty had been subjected to listening to Ransom and Holster wax poetic about the glorious hockey asses—and other hockey parts—of the Falconers for years now. Since he let his two well-meaning friends open up the market here in Providence instead of in Boston like he originally planned to do. But he was busy all the time, and he’d never bothered to pay more attention to hockey beyond his two hockey bros could talk about, so the whole thing meant very little.

Which wasn’t nothing, of course. Bitty would be friendly to them, and he did see the potential if someone from an NHL team caught on to how good his food was. Which it was. And honestly they could use the business. It’s wasn’t like kosher markets had queues round the building during lunch time. It was…a bit of a niche market—and a risk he knew he was taking.

“Okay, I’m gonna go greet these people, and you take a minute to compose yourself so you don’t embarrass the both of us. Lord have mercy,” he muttered, then pushed past Holster who was now no longer hyperventilating.

The door swung, and Bitty for a second, stopped dead in his tracks. He recognised the woman first—Gabby. She was one of his most loyal regulars, she and her son always came in for a sandwich and a sweet, and she’d been doing it for a while now. He’d known she was married, but he hadn’t realised she was married to a hockey player.

Jack Zimmermann.

Zimmermann.

He supposed it made sense.

And his stomach sank a little because he didn’t think they made hockey players that attractive. Tall, broad, thick, rich black hair, a jaw you could cut diamonds with. His blue eyes were a little intense as he took in everything round him, and when he turned, Bitty got a full view of the hockey ass which he now understood why Rans often threatened to faint when talking about Mashkov’s. 

Who, it turned out, was not there.

Probably for the best.

Bitty sighed, lamenting that all the attractive ones were always straight, and taken. But he was a professional, and he liked Gabby well enough, so he was happy for her. “Hey y’all! Gabby, Noah. It’s been a while!”

She looked sheepish, but she smiled as she approached the counter, setting Noah on the edge. “Yeah, sorry. We just found out we’re expecting again and I’ve spent the last six weeks bent over my toilet praying for death.”

“Oh honey, you should have called. I’d’a sent one of these boys over with some soup,” Bitty said, and he watched her go soft all over. Bitty glanced at Jack, who was watching him with an almost scary intensity, and he said, “Congratulations, by the way. Are you excited to be a big brother?”

Noah stared, then said, “Can I have chok-wet?”

Bitty laughed. “If your momma says it’s okay. Y’all here for lunch?”

Gabby nodded, then turned back to Jack and nodded him over. “It’s his first time here. My own fault for holding out this long, but a few days ago the boys tried to give him a reuben from Max’s…”

“Oh, bless their hearts. I love Max, I truly do, but that man…” Bitty said, then tutted. “Anyway, you want one’a those?”

Jack nodded, then swallowed, then managed in a rough voice with an accent that made Bitty’s toes tingle, “And the lentil soup?”

“You got it, hon.” Bitty turned to Gabby, and took her order of the falafel plate, and a side of knish for Noah who was, as she’d said, in the middle of his ‘potato phase.’ He waved them off to the tables, and watched as Jack held the chair out for Gabby, then coaxed Noah into his own before sitting.

It was domestic and sweet, and made him ache all over for something like that. He’d gone to University ready to prove to the world that growing up _different_ in Madison, Georgia—small, gay, Jewish in a town full of straight white Christians—wouldn’t mean anything for his future. He’d grow up and find a congregation he loved, who loved him back. He’d meet a nice man and settle down and get married. Have a family.

All the things he was too _different_ to do back home.

Instead he’d fumbled through Samwell on a figure skating scholarship, befriended a bunch of hockey frat bros, dated exactly four people—all with tragically benign beginnings and endings—and now was struggling to keep his little market afloat in a city far too expensive for him to be living in.

And the last date he’d been on had ruined his best pair of shoes.

And the last time he’d found a man as attractive as the straight hockey god sat at the table with his wife and kid was…

Well shit, he couldn’t even remember that.

It was just…a lot.

Bitty moved into the kitchen and found Holster huddling near the baking table easing the rye onto cooling racks, looking both sheepish and very sorry. “Are they still here?”

Bitty snorted. “Yes, they’re still here. One reuben with a side of the lentil soup, falafel plate, and a kids order of the potato knish. And no, Mashkov is not here. It’s just them.”

Holster’s face did a complicated dance between relieved and disappointed as he grabbed the nearest, cooled loaf of bread and threw it into the slicer. After the piercing grinding, he turned back to Bitty. “He’s on Rans’ list, you know.”

Bitty looked up from the flat top. “…sorry?”

Holster shoved the sandwich components at Bitty, then walked over to the hobs holding each of their days’ soup, and gave the lentils a stir. “Mashkov. He’s on Rans’ celebrity list.”

Bitty pulled a face. “Wait…one of those, it’s not cheating if it’s this celebrity list?”

Holster rolled his eyes. “No, Bits. We’re not monogamous, Ransy can fuck whoever he wants as long as he calls me about it first. But no like…we don’t usually do the celebrity thing, right? Because it feels weird to objectify these total strangers. But there are a few.”

Bitty rolled his eyes fondly. “Ah. I see.”

“And Mashkov basically _is_ Rans’ list. Well, him and Idris Elba.”

Bitty snorted. “Idris Elba is everyone’s list. Anyway I suppose you should tell Rans to stop over more often if we’re going to be having more NHL stars in here, right?”

Holster dropped the ladle with a loud clatter. “What? We’re…it…more of them?”

Bitty sighed as he pushed down on the sandwich, toasting the bread gently. “Honey, Gabby comes in here all the time. I just didn’t realise she was married to one of your hockey boys. So yeah, I think we might see more of them more often.”

Holster leant backward and sighed as he glanced through the small window on the door. “Jack Zimmermann’s ass though. Am I right?”

Bitty lowered his eyes, his shoulders shrugging, and he nodded. He couldn’t help it. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

*** 

Jack found himself parked outside Bitty’s Friday afternoon, knowing it was his last chance that week to get anything he’d need for the weekend. Jack rarely kept the Shabbat. Playing hockey, he did his best, but it was near impossible. It used to eat him up inside until he had a long sit down with his father who reminded him that he was doing his best, and G-d wasn’t in the habit of condemning people who lived their lives and did their jobs. Bob, who was far more devout than Jack had ever been, had gone through the same thing with hockey. He’d made his peace with it, and during his years of retirement he’d been able to give himself into the faith where before he’d had to sacrifice.

And Jack had stopped feeling so bad about it.

And honestly, if picking up a couple fresh loaves of challah for the weekend meant he got to see the ridiculously attractive, small, southern shop-keep, well…he wasn’t exactly complaining.

He took a few deep breaths, acknowledged the spike of anxiety in his gut which flared up from stepping outside of his routine, and he got out of his car. He liked the way the small bits of gravel crunched under his shoes, and he took his time getting to the door. He paused for another breath, then wrenched the door open and walked in.

He took a single step forward before coming to a stuttering halt. Across the room, a very tall, very broad man with blonde hair, pale skin, and glasses, held Bitty up on his shoulders. His arms were stretched up, gripping Bitty by the ass, as Bitty reached high onto the top shelf toward a bunch of boxes.

“Lord, if you would kindly stop groping me,” Bitty muttered.

“It’s not like I don’t get handfuls of your ass any time I want, Bits,” the man said, and smacked Bitty’s behind for emphasis.

Jack’s stomach sank. Hard. It was confirmation that Bitty did, in fact, like men, but also confirmation that Bitty was, in fact, taken. He swallowed, allowed himself to feel the disappointment, and was given a moment of peace before he was noticed.

“Oh. Shit. Oh _shit_ ,” the blonde said, teetering dangerously to the side.

Bitty yelped, grabbing the man by the sides of the head, then looked over and his face broke into a grin. “Jack! I didn’t expect you so soon.” He smacked the blonde until he was allowed to slide off his shoulders. “If you’re not gonna be polite, Adam, get into the back room and start slicing.”

Adam gave a cough, then muttered something, and ran off.

Bitty rolled his eyes, but turned his smile back to Jack. “Sorry about him. He’s kind of…a Falcs fan.”

Jack flushed a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh ah. It’s fine. I get that a lot. I just didn’t realise you all liked hockey.”

“Oh,” Bitty said, and his cheeks flared bright pink. “Not that I don’t think the world of y’all, but I’m not…I’ve never um…I’m sure you’re real great, Jack, really. I just…”

Jack chuckled, putting Bitty out of his misery. “It’s okay. Seriously, it’s nice to have a few minutes where someone isn’t asking me about hockey.” And huh…he actually kind of meant that. He blinked, then tried for another smile. “Is it weird that I’m back so soon?”

“Are you kidding? Jack, hon, it’s so flattering! I mean, Adam told me how much y’all travel. I’m sure you’ve had the very best in deli food and yet…here you are.”

“I have,” Jack said solemnly. “Here.”

Bitty’s blush deepened. “Charmer,” he said, then threw a wink and motioned Jack toward the counter. “For that I’m giving you a free sugar pie. I had them made up for Rans, but he ended up comin’ down with a stomach flu somethin’ nasty so…here they are.” He dug behind the pastry counter and produced a small, tart-sized sugar pie. “He’s Canadian too, so I can assure you his endorsement of my product is sound.”

Jack laughed, and cupped the small tart, but didn’t try it. Yet. “I’m…I was hoping for um. Lunch,” Jack said, biting his lip after. “Then maybe a couple challah loaves to take home for the weekend.”

“Of course. What can I get you today?”

Jack hummed over the menu, then ordered the schwarma sandwich with extra hummus, and a large water. Bitty hummed and fussed, and tried to give Jack a discount, but Jack waved it off. “Seriously, Bittle. I’m good for it.”

Bitty’s eyes widened, then he huffed and took Jack’s card. “Well then, Mr Hockey Man. Why not tell all your nice NHL friends to come here and buy my delicious goods?”

Jack chuckled. “Then what? Start a revolution and make it so I never get to chat with you again?” He felt bad almost instantly—flirting with Bitty when his boyfriend was just on the other side of the wall. All the same, Bitty flushed and looked demurely down for a second, and shrugged his shoulders.

“Yeah well, I’d make time for you, Jack.” He looked up after a second, his expression almost ashamed, and he said, “How’s Gabby and Noah, by the way? Not with you today?”

Jack shrugged, a little confused by the question, but he answered anyway. “I think they’re at home. Normally they don’t come to practise, and since she’s pregnant I probably won’t see her at a lot of games. I’ll pass on a hello though, if you like?”

Bitty frowned, but nodded. “Do that. Tell Noah I have some chocolates waiting just for him when they stop back in.”

Jack took his leave then, taking the sugar pie back to the table he and Gabby had sat at the day before. He leant his elbow on the table, glancing around at the orderly chaos—at the messy shelves, and the unpacked boxes that sat in corners, and all the Hebrew writing on all the brightly coloured packets and he wanted to just fold this place up and put it in his pocket, and take it out every time he felt homesick and lonely.

But this was good enough. Sitting here waiting for a sandwich, and waiting to see the bright smile of a man who probably wouldn’t go for him anyway—so it was best he was taken.

He breathed out, then took a bite of the sugar pie and wanted to cry. It was perfect. It tasted like home.

*** 

Eric Bittle loved himself. He loved his life, loved his little market, and he believed whole-heartedly he was a person who deserved happiness—just like anyone else in the world. Which was why he determinedly did not google Jack Zimmermann. It was why he politely declined to watch the game with Rans and Holtzy, and it was why he went the long way round to avoid the big billboards with Jack’s hockey scowl plastered all over it.

Now, if Jack Zimmermann came into the market three times a week to eat and chat, well, Bitty was just being polite. And if he lingered and made sure to drawl his accent out a little more when he chirped Jack because it made Jack smile well…there was nothing wrong with a little harmless flirting. Bitty could take it home and put it to bed with the rest of his pining emotions. Jack was straight, married, and a parent.

Bitty could live with that.

This was not his first rodeo with a straight-man crush.

Still, it would be nice if Jack stopped torturing him with his presence. It would be nice if Jack spent a little more time talking about his wife—maybe wore his dang wedding ring, boasted about his kid. Anything to make it a little easier to deal with the tidal wave of feelings he had for that man.

What absolutely did _not_ help was Jack strolling into the market late Thursday looking freshly showered and a little flushed—definitely dressed for his afternoon trip to the arena for their evening game. He was smiling, looking a tad sheepish in that adorable way he always did—his eyes went all crinkly in the corners and he kept rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, the other twisting at one of the buttons on the bottom of his jacket.

Bitty was in the middle of restocking packets of Bamba which he’d been waiting three months for, when he heard the bell, and turned to see Jack stood there. Jack’s eyes were darting round the shop, the way he always did—like he was just taking it all in, not because he wanted something. Then his gaze settled on Bitty and he gave a small sigh.

“Hey, Bittle.”

Bitty almost laughed, swiping his forehead with the back of his hand, knowing he probably looked like garbage. “Hey, Jack. I wasn’t expecting you. Don’t you have a game in like…a few hours?”

“I just got done with my nap,” Jack explained, and Bitty wanted to die from how fucking cute he was. Lord, spare him this misery. “I um. I wanted to um…” His eyes then fell on Bitty’s hands which were stuffed with the packets, and he sucked in a breath. “Is that Bamba?”

Bitty looked down, then back up at Jack’s face. “Yes?”

Jack took a step forward, hesitant, his hand darting out like he wanted to take one, then he seemed to realise what he was doing and snatched his hand back. “Sorry,” he muttered.

Eric took pity on the man, and held out one of the packets. “Here. As a good luck for your game. I mean—I hope. Lord, I hope you don’t take one and _lose_ …”

Jack chuckled, but took the offered gift. “Um. Thanks. Actually I wanted to ah…” He rubbed the back of his neck then, and Bitty wanted to grab his hand away just to make him stop because his poor, southern gay heart could only take so _much_. “You’ve been so great here. I know I can be a little ah…annoying, when I get fixated on something, and your shop is…” He cleared his throat, then didn’t continue with his line of thought. “I wanted to give you tickets. To the game. We have a late game Sunday, so I thought you and Holster might…oh and your um…your friend Ransom? Right?”

Bitty felt his cheeks go hot, and his first instinct was to refuse because lord, he didn’t think he’d be able to take watching Jack in action like that. He really would combust. But Jack looked so adorably uncertain, and almost determined, like he wanted to do this big thing for Bitty and well…in all honesty there was no way Bitty could say no.

“That’s so nice, Jack. I would love that. And so would the boys. Lord, I think Ransom might actually faint if he got to see Mashkov up close.”

Jack chuckled, clutching the Bamba close to his chest, breathing in. “I could arrange for a locker-room visit if you like.”

Bitty flushed at the sudden thought of Jack there all…sweaty and shirtless and… “Oh uh. Well. I mean, I wouldn’t want us to be any trouble, and lord knows I have a hard enough time getting those boys to behave under normal circumstances. In a locker room…”

Jack chuckled again, and Bitty’s words died on his lips as he got lost in the soft blues of Jack’s eyes. “I’ll leave tickets at the box office, eh? Actually um…” He dug into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a receipt, and a mini sharpie. He scribbled something down, then hesitated, then shoved it toward Bitty. “You can text me, if you want. You know, if you need more tickets or if you want to meet the guys or. For anything. To say hi. Whatever.”

Bitty’s hands did not tremble when he took the number, but it was a close thing. He wondered who, exactly, he pissed off that he was sent to this hell-on-earth that was married Jack Zimmermann flirting with him. He had spent most of his life as a good person, and he refused to believe those old goyim gossipy women on his childhood street were right about anything. So seriously, what was it?

“I’ll text you,” Bitty said, when he realised Jack was still staring at him all nervous and unsure. Jack’s entire body relaxed after that, and his face melted into the softest grin. “Good luck tonight, Jack. I’m sure y’all are gonna crush it.”

“Thanks I…thanks,” Jack said, still cradling the packet of peanut butter snacks. “I’ll let you get back to work. Um. See you.”

Then he was gone, and Bitty collapsed forward, letting his forehead rest against the cool metal as he contemplated what he’d done to get himself to this exact moment.

*** 

Sunday evening, two hours before the game, Jack was sat at a table, feeling a bead of sweat running down the back of his neck, Jack dug his fingers into the packet of Bamba, and crunched down, feeling the puffed bits squish down between his teeth. He didn’t even like them that much, but he hadn’t had them in years. His mother used to serve them with a little pot of jam on the side, and he would eat them with her and watch his dad tear it up on the ice.

Now he was alone, eating them plain, his head unable to be anywhere except on Eric Bittle. It was masochistic, he decided, the way he couldn’t stop himself from going there. The way he tried to draw out every second Bittle would spend with him, making him laugh, leaning on the empty chair, trying hard not to wish too much that Bittle would just sit down and hook his ankle round Jack’s and share a meal.

To call it a date.

It was unfair to Bittle and to his boyfriend who seemed to be a really decent guy. He was always there, supportive, helping Bittle with whatever he needed. The chirps were more on the sweet side, and he never missed an opportunity to tell Bittle how much he was appreciated.

Bittle deserved that.

Jack couldn’t give him that, not really. He wouldn’t be around enough—he was always on the road, and he wasn’t the most pleasant person during the season, and even his summers were fraught with media obligations, charities, and travel.

Really, what kind of boyfriend would Jack be?

He had the worst track record, and the future didn’t look any brighter on that front.

With a sigh, he partly regretted asking Bittle to be here. It never felt good to watch Bittle and Adam together, but honestly, he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to give something back. So he’d upgraded their tickets to all-access passes, with options for glass seats or the VIP box. They’d be able to come down to meet the team, and there was a damn good chance the boys would ask them all out for drinks or dinner after. Depending on how the game went.

Feeling a heavy sigh lodged in his chest, Jack pushed up and headed out of the room, pushing into one of the corridors that led to the staff break room and the storage cupboard. Jack was headed toward the staff toilets when he heard a familiar voice, and he froze.

“…babe. This is fine, and it’s better than dealing with that shit-show queue out there.”

It was Adam. Jack sucked in his breath.

“Besides, I just wanna make out with you for like five minutes, then we can join the crowd, okay?”

Jack braced himself to hear Bitty’s voice, but that was decidedly not the person who spoke next.

“Jesus, fine. But you owe me nachos and a frozen lemonade, okay?”

“Yeah yeah.”

Jack couldn’t seem to stop himself as he pushed the door open. He hadn’t been wrong. Adam was there, wearing a blue Falcs t-shirt, and he had the man Jack recognised as Ransom from Bittle’s phone pushed against the wall, locked in a kiss which broke apart when Jack entered.

Adam’s eyes went wide. “Oh shit, Jack. Hey I…”

“You know what,” Jack said, unable to stop himself, “he’s a good person. He’s a better person than either one of us, and I trusted you to take care of him. Not…not just…fucking in a hockey toilet. I can’t believe…I don’t…” Jack took a breath, his words starting to fail him. “Tell him, or I will.”

And then he was gone. He turned on his heels before he could do something stupid, like punch Adam in the face.

He half expected to hear footsteps after him, but if Adam had followed, he hadn’t been quick enough. Jack slipped back into the main room and came almost crashing into Gabby, who was holding Noah on her hip.

“Hey, Jack. How are you?”

Jack knew his face was bright red, and his hands were still shaking. He swallowed thickly, glancing over his shoulder, then leant down. “You know Adam? From Bitty’s?”

“Of course I do,” she said with a laugh.

“He’s cheating.”

Gabby’s eyes went wide. “What? How…how do you know that? Oh shit, his poor husband…”

Jack felt like cold water had been thrown on him. Husband? Adam and Bittle were… _married_? “I…that’s.” He scrubbed a hand down his face, then said, “How can he do this to Bitty? He’s such a good person, it’s obvious how much he loves him and…”

“Wait,” Gabby said, holding up a hand. “Jack…Adam isn’t…Adam’s not married to Bitty.”

Jack’s entire world stopped moving for a nanosecond. He blinked. Stared. “What?”

“Honey,” Gabby said, her voice soft and patient, “Adam and Bitty aren’t a couple. Adam and Justin have been married for years. Right out of college.”

Jack blinked slowly again. “Justin…”

“Ransom. You’ve seen him, I’m sure.”

Of course Jack had seen him, of course he knew who he was but… “But Adam and Bittle…”

“Best friends, and I think they dated for a hot minute in Bitty’s sophomore year. But no, Jack. I promise you, they’re just friends.”

“Oh,” Jack said, the word punched out of him with a heavy breath. “Oh I…”

Gabby’s eyes widened suddenly, and she took a step back, but pitched her voice lower. “Jack…do you like him?”

Jack felt his face flame up red-hot again. “Well I…um.”

“You have to talk to him,” she said, reaching for his arm. “Jack…he’s…the way he looks at you just…talk to him. Please.”

Jack nodded, though he wasn’t sure if he had the courage. But he wanted to find it somewhere, because the way he reacted when he’d seen Adam with Ransom, there was no denying how he felt, or the strength of it, and just the thought of having a chance was sending him into a spin.

He had to focus on hockey now—there was no real time for this, but there would be time after.

“Thank you,” he said in a rush. He pulled his arm back from her and started to dart toward the locker room where his phone was waiting. He paused in the doorway, then turned back to Gabby. “I just…thank you.”

“Go,” she said with a laugh, shooing him. “And don’t say I never did anything for you!”

Jack laughed, a little high, a little tense, but he couldn’t help it. He was grinning from ear to ear as he went to his phone and switched it back on. There were three innocuous texts in Bittle’s thread.

**Hi Jack, it’s Bitty. Rans, Holtzy, and I are really looking forward to the game!**

_Hi Bittle. I’ll get you good seats. See you then._

**Can’t wait!**

Jack’s thumbs brushed the screen, bringing up his keyboard, but it took several breaths before he could figure out what to say. Eventually he settled on something simple, a promise—if Bittle didn’t hate him for what he’d said to Adam…but for that he could apologise. In person.

_I’d like to see you after the game. I’m about to hit the ice in a few so I can’t talk now. But…please come down to the locker rooms. And save me five minutes._

He switched his phone off, then reached for his pads and began to gear up.

*** 

Bitty was only slightly annoyed his friends had seemed to bail. He was alone in their string of three seats right up against the glass, and no idea what was about to happen since he knew exactly two percent about hockey. He knew it was played with sticks and a puck, on skates, and there was someone called a goalie that got pucks shot at his face.

He also knew Jack was captain of his team, and that he was very good. But in context, that meant very little.

And he was married. Married, married, married.

He’d get a nice view of Jack’s hockey butt, and then he would let it go. It was time to move on.

Sat back in his seat, Bitty watched as the lights dimmed, and loud music began to play. The announcer was shouting something, though Bitty was too lost in his thoughts to pay much attention, but the players began to take the ice after that.

They were playing the Stars, who were in white and green, and they were circling the other end of the arena. The Falcs took the ice next, in their bright blue uniforms, and Bitty had no trouble setting his eyes on Jack. Jack didn’t look over, but he was close enough that Bitty could make out the determined look on his face, the sharp words coming out of his mouth as he directed a couple of his guys.

His heart fluttered and he wondered how screwed he was. Getting over it was going to be far easier said than done.

This was…interesting though. Suddenly there was a gaggle of hockey players stretching on the ice, sticking their big, pert butts into the air, twisting into positions that frankly would be indecent anywhere else. Watching Jack stretch his legs out and go all…limber…was something else.

Bitty hated and loved every second of this.

It carried on a while, and eventually the players were sent off. Right round then, Ransom and Holster finally showed up, both of them looking more confused than anything. Rans was clutching a giant frozen lemonade, and he was glancing over at Holster periodically.

“So we just had the weirdest fucking encounter with Zimms,” Holster began, but then everything started up again. Announcements were being made, people were screaming, then the anthem was playing.

The lights came back up, and they were super close to the bench, so Bitty got a good look at the guys. He noticed across the way, Gabby was there, leaning over the railings, holding Noah. Bitty’s heart clenched as she watched another player with the name St Martin across the back. He was laughing, grabbing Noah’s hand, then winking at Gabby.

“Hey, Adam?” Bitty said, nodding over. “Who’s St Martin?”

“He’s Alternate Captain. He used to be cap, but he took a few years off after busting his knee. Why?”

“Oh I just…” The words died on Bitty’s lips as St Martin rose up on his skates, then grabbed Gabby by her arm and kissed her. “Why’s he kissing Jack’s wife?”

Holster’s head whipped round, and he blinked. “Bro, that’s not Jack’s wife. Jack isn’t married.”

“I… what?” Bitty asked. He wasn’t sure he could be heard over the roar of the crowd, but he couldn’t seem to make his voice louder.

“Dude,” Ransom said, leaning in, “Jack’s like, hella single. And hella bi. Why, you into that, Bits?”

Bitty felt like all the air had been squeezed out of his lungs. “I. Um.”

“Holy shit, have you been jonsing for the Zimmermann ass this whole time, and you thought he was married?” Holster crowed.

Bitty punched him on the arm. “Shut up. He seemed all…married.”

Holster rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah, super married, the way he came in three times a week to flirt with you. Holy shit, I cannot believe how oblivious you are.”

“They’re perfect for each other,” Ransom said.

Covering his face with one hand, trying to ignore his utter mortification, Bitty pulled his phone out of his pocket to give himself something to do as the game got ready to start. He’d put it all on silent, but he saw the slow, blinking light telling him he had a text, and his breath caught in his throat when he flicked the screen open and saw Jack’s name on there.

He read it once, twice, a third time before he processed what was happening. Then he turned to Holster who was now watching the game with rapt attention. 

“You said Jack was weird,” Bitty said, and Holster glanced at him with a frown. “When you and Rans got back, you said you ran into Jack and it was weird?”

“Oh. Shit, bro, yeah. Dude walks into the fucking toilet where Rans and I are making out and he gets all pissed off and he’s like, ‘I thought you were better than this, he’s a good person. You’d better tell him, or I will.’ Then he storms out. Like what the fuck?”

There was a tense pause, then Ransom hit Holster in the arm. “Oh shit. Oh _shit_. He totally thought you were cheating on Bits.”

Bitty’s face went bright red. “Oh he couldn’t possibly…”

His words were cut off when Holster grabbed his phone and read the message. “Holy fucking shit, he does! He totally thinks that! Oh my sweet fuck. He’s got the hots for you so fucking bad, Bits. You’re gonna get it so good after this game.”

“Y’all are disgusting,” Bitty snapped, glowering at them both. But he was distracted just then, as Jack was checked right into the boards, right in front of him. Their eyes locked as Jack recovered himself. Bitty watched the sides of his mouth quirk up before he skated off.

Two minutes later, he scored.

Bitty was on his feet with the rest of the crowd, screaming his head off.

*** 

Jack was trembling. Less from the nerves of the game, and more from knowing that Bitty was coming to see him. He had proof, in the form of a text.

**I’ve been reasonably informed we need to have a talk. So yeah, I’ll meet you.**

Jack was grateful he had time to do press, to shower, to get dressed and go over a few things with the guys before the locker room door opened and Bitty walked in. Jack half expected him to bring Adam and Justin along, but he was by himself, and the only person left in the room besides him was Snowy.

Jack was given a meaningful look from his goalie, then Snowy slipped away, and it was just him and Bittle.

“Hey, Jack. Amazing game. I mean, it was also my first so I don’t have a lot to go on but…wow. Good win. I liked the thing with the um…with the hats?”

Jack couldn’t help himself from smiling, a warmth pooling in his belly as he took in Bittle’s expression, the nervous way he clenched his hands together, the way he shifted from one foot to the other. “Hat trick,” Jack said as he stood up, brushing his hands down the front of his jeans. “Three goals in one game is a hat trick.”

“And those are good?” Bitty asked.

Jack chuckled. “They’re very good.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he sucked in a breath, letting it out slowly. “Can we…go somewhere? I mean…to talk. You said we um, we need to…”

“Yeah. Yes,” Bitty said, then hesitated. “Where could we go without you getting totally mobbed?”

Jack bit his lip. “Dunno. There are a few places across town, but that could be pretty iffy. It gets a little intense after a win.”

“Could we…” Bitty stopped, then squared his shoulders. “I live near the market. I…my apartment? It shares a building with the market. I have tea, dinner, whatever. I could cook you something.”

If it had been anyone else in the world but Bittle, he would have said no. Instead he took a step closer and said, “Cool if we take my car?”

Somehow, with every drop of miscommunication and wrong assumptions, and near misses, Jack got Bittle into his car, and across the city to the building he was becoming more and more familiar with. Bittle’s apartment entrance was on the side of the building, up two flights of stairs, and down a small corridor. They stopped in front of the door as Bittle rummaged into his pocket for his keys, and after opening the door, reached up and touched his mezuzah before walking in. Absently, Jack did the same, feeling the ridges under the pads of his fingers before dragging them away.

It was a small place—much smaller than Jack’s, but lived in and cosy in a way Jack’s place had never been. The furniture was mis-matched and well loved, there were bookshelves heavier with photos than with books, a few afghans across the chair and sofa cushions, and a few dishes were still sat out on the low coffee table.

“Sorry, it’s kind of a mess. I never have time to clean anymore,” Bittle said as he shrugged off his coat and slung it on the back of a kitchen chair.

The place was so small, the living room bled right into the kitchen, which was also a surrogate dining room. Bitty didn’t seem to care where Jack was looking, and only met his eyes as they toed off their shoes and kicked them against the wall.

“Okay, so you probably need to eat,” Bitty said, clapping his hands together. “Why don’t you get comfy, and I’ll heat up some of this roasted chicken I made up the other night. Sound okay?”

Jack nodded. It was perfect, though frankly at this point he would have taken anything Bittle was offering. Just being here in his space was more than he thought he was ever going to get. Lowering himself to the sofa, he felt the ache in his body from a long game—well played, but hard-earnt, and it was nice to be able to sit back, even if his heart and head were going a mile a minute.

He watched as Bittle bustled round the kitchen, pulling a pan from his fridge, and putting it straight into his oven. He put a pot of water to boil, and a few minutes later Jack saw him putting in dry pasta. His mouth watered—for more than just the food, but he was content with this.

It was strange, the two of them not saying a word to each other as Bittle cooked, but there was something comforting and domestic about being allowed to just…watch.

Dinner took half an hour, and it was late by the time Bittle was walking over with a small tray laden with the chicken, veg, and pasta. He set it on the coffee table with two glasses of water, and Jack eased himself to the floor, tucking his long legs alongside Bittle’s.

“This looks great,” he said.

Bittle flushed. “I mean…it’s just left overs, but I don’t feel so bad because you know I can do better.”

“I wouldn’t have doubted you anyway,” Jack said solemn and careful, and he liked the way it made Bittle’s cheeks go pink. Taking a bite of the pasta, he sighed. “I…well. Apparently I said some things tonight to Adam that I didn’t mean.”

Bittle blinked, then covered a giggle with the press of his fingertips. “Oh goodness, Jack. I mean…it was all cleared up, so no worries.”

“I thought you two were a couple,” Jack said, going hot from embarrassment, but he appreciated that Bittle’s laughter was without malice. “I…like you. You’re…you’re a wonderful person and I just didn’t like the thought that he might have been taking advantage of that.”

Bittle let out a tiny sigh, but his smile was bright, and so sweet. “Thank you, Jack. That means a lot. For the record um. I might have misunderstood your situation too.”

Jack blinked at him. “…okay?”

“You came in with Gabby, and she talked about her husband a lot, but I never knew who he was so I might have assumed…”

Jack almost choked on his water, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You thought me and Gabby were…”

“Married, yeah,” Bittle said, dropping his gaze. He picked it right back up, startled when Jack reached across the table and let his warm palm fall over the back of Bitty’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he breathed.

Jack shook his head, but didn’t move his hand away, wanting more, but happy with this for now. “We both could have asked, and neither one of us did so…”

Bitty laughed. “Yeah.” After a moment, he turned his hand, pressing his own palm against Jack’s. It was a little rough and calloused from kitchen work, but it was warm, and it was pressing, and it was so, so wonderful. “Silly us.”

Jack couldn’t help another laugh, and though he wanted to tug at Bitty until the other man came round the table and settled onto his lap, he picked up his fork and began eating. Bitty followed suit, and finally, _finally_ when their plates were clear, Bitty pulled his hand away, and came round to Jack’s side.

“I like you,” he said after a long moment of just staring. “I like you a lot, and I know it’s…I mean, we don’t know each other that well but…”

“I know you hate pickles,” Jack said, the word sort of tumbling from his lips as he shifted even closer, his hand going up to touch Bitty’s cheek. “I know you like your aunt’s jam recipe better than your mother’s, but you’d never tell her that. I know you try to keep kosher, but you can’t resist a bacon cheeseburger every once in a while. I know that you’re one of the bravest men I’ve ever met—to do this, with your life, to take charge the way you did. I like that about you, Bittle. A lot.”

“Goodness,” Bitty breathed, and he leant his head into the cradle of Jack’s palm, his eyes so dark, staring, drinking him in. “I like you too. I…I think you’re just about the most attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on, and when I thought you were with Gabby, I thought I was never gonna get over you.”

“Well,” Jack said thoughtfully, turning his body so he could cup his hand at Bitty’s ribs. “You don’t have to.”

“No?” Bitty asked with a grin.

Jack shook his head, smiling back as he leant in. He made it an offer, a question, holding back and letting Bitty close the distance between them if he wanted to. And after a pause, he did. Their lips slid together, gentle and soft, Bitty’s eyes wide just for a moment before they slipped shut. Then Jack’s did the same. He lost himself in the feel of it all, the way Bitty’s cheek was hot against his hand, the way his ribs expanded and contracted under his fingers, the way his mouth moved in a soft, push-pull dance with just the barest, teasing hint of tongue. He delighted in the feel of the small, puffs of Bitty’s breath across his cheek, the way Bitty’s hands reached for the front of his shirt, digging his fingers in, pulling him closer, closer until Jack was all, but crowding him against the sofa.

When they broke apart, Jack was breathing heavy, and Bitty’s eyes were still closed, like he was trying to compose himself. “That was,” Jack said.

“Mm,” Bitty agreed. His hands moved from Jack’s shirt, up the side of his neck, pushing his fingers into the shorn back of Jack’s hair. “That certainly was. I um…” He finally opened his eyes, the look a little tentative, like he wasn’t sure how he felt about what he was going to ask. “Do you want to date me?”

Jack let out a laugh, helpless to it because it was a little absurd after everything he’d just said. But he understood it. Hyper communication after not doing so well all these weeks. “Yes, Bittle. I would love to date you. I…it’s not easy with me. I mean, I’m gone a lot, and what little free time I have, I’ve already been spending with you. But…but I want to make room for you in my life. If you’d have me. I would…I could come help you at the shop.” He punctuated that by dragging his fingers along the cut of Bitty’s jaw, and was rewarded with another, soft kiss.

When Bitty pulled away, he was smiling. “All of that sounds wonderful, Jack. I…gosh, I’ve been wanting this for so long, and all this time I thought you were straight, and married, and had a kid and…”

“You didn’t google me?” Jack asked, his tone a little playful. He pushed up to his feet suddenly, dragging Bittle with him onto the sofa cushions. Bittle was a little bossy, moving Jack until he was satisfied, until they were curled against each other, nearly nose-to-nose.

“I was tempted, but it felt weirdly invasive, you know? Like…it’s more than vetting your date’s facebook. There’s probably a lot on you.”

“There is,” Jack admitted. “Some of it is…not all of it’s right. But it would have told you I wasn’t straight, or married.”

Bitty laughed, the sound a little self-deprecating. “I didn’t think I could take seeing happy photos of you and your family. Um. You know, Gabby and Noah.”

Jack chuckled. “There are probably a few of me and Noah. I’m his favourite babysitter.”

“Lord,” Bittle breathed, his cheeks pinking again. “That’s…weirdly attractive.”

Jack snorted, and dropped a few pecking kisses to the corners of Bitty’s mouth. “You’d have found out I was bisexual. Open for the last three years about it.” He dragged his fingers up the hem of Bitty’s shirt, just letting him feel the ridges of Bitty’s naked ribs. “I haven’t dated much.”

Bitty breathed out through his nose, then let out a tiny chuckle. “Neither have I. Shit luck, and well…I’m a little bit of a mess.”

“I like your mess,” Jack murmured, and for that, he was kissed again.

“So we’re really doing this?” Bitty asked after pulling away. “We’re really going to try this whole…dating thing?”

“If you like.” Jack smiled at him, brushing fingers through his hair. “I would like it. If that matters.”

Bitty rolled his eyes, smacking him on the side of the ribs. “Of course it matters, sweetpea. But I would like it too. So.” He swallowed. “Boyfriends. We can be boyfriends.”

“I don’t have time to do the whole dating thing so, yeah,” Jack said, feeling a thrill. And maybe it was fast, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe all those afternoons he sat at the market, listening to Bitty talk, watching the way the afternoon sun lit up his face, watching him work, the way he charmed every single person that came into his shop. Maybe that was falling for him. Maybe that took the place of awkward dates at random bars with uncomfortable get-to-know-you questions.

And Jack was okay with that.

“Boyfriends,” Jack said. Then he smiled. “I think this is gonna be good.”

Bitty cupped his cheek, rubbing his thumb over Jack’s cheekbone. “I think so too. I mean, apart from getting used to having a famous boyfriend. That’s…new for me. It’ll take some adjustment.”

Jack chuckled. “Intimidated?”

“A little,” Bitty admitted. “It’s a different world. But I’m in—however long it takes me to adjust.”

Jack grinned, then leant in and dragged his lips along the cut of Bitty’s jaw before whispering, “So is it a bad time to mention that both my parents are ridiculously famous too?”

Bitty pulled back. “You’re serious?”

“My dad holds almost as many records as Wayne Gretzky, and my mom’s an actress.”

Bitty blinked at him, stone-faced, then just before Jack started to panic, Bitty shifted and pinned Jack to the cushions, kissing him soundly. “Lord,” he murmured against Jack’s lips. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

Jack smiled back, curling his fingers into Bitty’s waist. “So, we’re good?”

Bitty rolled his eyes, but beamed back at him. “Yeah, honey. We’re good.”


End file.
